


Phone Sex

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mind Games, Phone Sex, Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just when Sherlock is contemplating doing something, anything, to keep himself occupied, that the phone rings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phone Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/514417.html>
> 
> Contains spoilers for _The Great Game_.

By mid-morning, Sherlock's finished working on the case and has returned home from Scotland Yard. By 1pm, he's running out of things to do around the flat. By 4pm, he's nearly crawling up the walls.  
  
John is out. Mrs Hudson is out. In fact, no-one who would be even remotely useful is in the flat. It's just Sherlock, and the TV, and his boredom.  
  
Currently, the TV and the boredom are warring it out between themselves to see which of them holds the majority of Sherlock's attention.  
  
Unfortunately, the boredom is winning.  
  
It's just when Sherlock is contemplating doing something, _anything_ , to keep himself occupied, that the phone rings. The _pink_ phone.  
  
In an instant, Sherlock has leapt over the sofa to retrieve it from the table.  
  
 _Number blocked_ , says the screen. Well, of course. With a smile, Sherlock jumps into the nearest armchair, presses _answer_ and puts the phone to his ear.  
  
After a brief silence, a voice on the other end of the line says, "Hello, Sherlock." And with that amused, lilting accent, it can't be anyone else.  
  
"Moriarty." Sherlock's smile widens. "It's not like you to call directly. No pips this time?"  
  
"Not this time. Why, did you want some? Did you want me to hook some poor idiot up to a bomb to make things more exciting?"  
  
Sherlock says nothing.  
  
"No," says Moriarty with a chuckle. "Today, I thought we could just have a chat. Would you like to have a _chat_?"  
  
"Where are you?" asks Sherlock.  
  
"Oh. _Oh_. Wouldn't you like to _know_ ," sings Moriarty. "Not telling."  
  
Sherlock sighs. "Then I have the feeling that this _chat_ is going to get rather boring pretty quickly."  
  
Moriarty is silent for a second, and then says, "The fire, last night. Young Lydia Phillips dead."  
  
Suddenly, the case from this morning rearranges itself in Sherlock's head. "That was you?"  
  
Moriarty huffs, impatiently. "The fire, last night. Young Lydia Phillips dead."  
  
For the moment, at least, Sherlock decides that it will be in his interests play along. "Premeditated murder," he says. "It was her aunt. The cause of death was smothering, not smoke inhalation." He smirks. "It was all rather easy."  
  
Moriarty exhales, amused. "Last Monday. Car accident at 3pm on the M40. 11 people killed."  
  
"The breaks of the car had been tampered with," says Sherlock, "but only after the accident. The driver was killed by carbon monoxide poisoning as she was driving along."  
  
"Last week. The death of that jockey, Robert Frayne."  
  
"Heart-attack. And not because of a drugs overdose, despite what his family wants the press to think."  
  
Moriarty hums happily. "The new newsagents on Marylebone Road. Closed after only a week."  
  
"Insurance scam." Sherlock can't help himself from smiling. "What's the point of all this? Are you making a confession?"  
  
"Only if you can prove a connection to me. _Which you won't be able to_."  
  
"Then why..."  
  
"Tell me what you're wearing."  
  
Sherlock fixes his eyes on the mantelpiece. "You know I won't do that."  
  
"I know," says Moriarty, not sounding very disappointed, "but I thought it was worth a _try_. Besides," he says, "I already _know_ exactly what you're wearing."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"A suit, minus the jacket. Black, of course. 8 months old and not as expensive as you'd like people to think. Your shirt is blue and looking rather worse for wear, as is everything you have on, because you've spent all night in it. Tut tut, Sherlock. _Really_ , I would expect better from you."  
  
Sherlock smiles.  
  
"Surprised that I know?" asks Moriarty.  
  
"Not in the slightest."  
  
"Aroused?"  
  
Sherlock says nothing.  
  
Moriarty laughs. "Two months ago. Gary Palmer. Suicide in East Finchley."  
  
Sherlock smiles. "Not him. It was actually his twin brother who died, even though he was thought to be travelling around New Zealand at the time."  
  
"One year ago. That large train accident outside Leicester."  
  
"The signal was damaged on purpose, but the workman responsible was caught up in the crash."  
  
"Want to know what _I'm_ wearing?"  
  
Sherlock snorts. "I've a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," says Moriarty, amused. "I'm not wearing _anything_."  
  
It's a brazen-faced lie. Sherlock can hear the faint rustle of clothes as Moriarty moves, but Sherlock doesn't care enough to contradict him.  
  
"Two years ago," says Moriarty. "An explosion on the outskirts of Slough. Undo your shirt for me."  
  
Sherlock fingers the buttons on his shirt, but does nothing else. "The guilty party was the owner of the warehouse adjoining the damaged building. There were traces of explosives in his garden. A foolish mistake to make."  
  
"Three years ago. Lewisham. John Peterson stabbed to death."  
  
"It looked like gang crime but it wasn't. The murderer was a teacher from his school and the knife was purchased by him on a recent trip to Germany." Sherlock sighs. "Easy. These are all so _easy_. Can't you give me anything harder?"  
  
Moriarty takes a shuddery breath. "You would like that, wouldn't you, Sherlock? If I gave you something _harder_."  
  
Sherlock runs a hand over his collarbone. "I would."  
  
"Ok then," says Moriarty, "I'll give you something _hard_. 10 years ago. Lisa Everingham. New Forest."  
  
Sherlock licks his lips as he tries to place the name. "Murder?" he asks.  
  
"Er... nope," says Moriarty, like he's just decided, "you don't need me to tell you that now, surely?"  
  
Sherlock scowls. "Of course not." He focusses on a mark on the wall. "Lisa Everingham... in the New Forest..."  
  
"If you don't know the answer..." says Moriarty.  
  
"Be quiet!" says Sherlock. "Be quiet! I do, I just need some time to..." Without warning, the memory dawns on Sherlock like a stampede. "It wasn't the New Forest at all!" He grins, triumphant. "Her body was placed there to make it look like she'd fallen while out walking. She hadn't, of course. Nobody with hair like that would even think of walking in the country. Add to that the concrete dust on her clothes, and you realise that she was pushed out of a two story window more than 20 miles away."  
  
"Good," breathes Moriarty. "1994. Roger Golding."  
  
Sherlock puts his fingers to his lips. "Is that all?"  
  
Moriarty laughs breathily. "Frustrated?"  
  
"No," says Sherlock. "No. I just... One second..." He closes his eyes and inhales.  
  
"Oh, Sherlock, I do love to hear you thinking."  
  
"Shhh!" snaps Sherlock. He rubs his thumbnail over his bottom lip and tries to visualise the name. Roger Golding. Roger Golding. Roger Golding.  
  
"It is such a shame to see you stumped. Sad, really."  
  
"I'm not stumped." Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. "But some things take a little longer to recall when all I've got is a name and a year to go on." He pauses. "1994. 1994; I would have hardly been 18 at the time." And as he brings up memories of being 18, it comes to him. "Roger Golding wasn't murdered!" Sherlock chuckles at the absurdity of it all. "Roger Golding was a fellow student, and a thief. Quite clever too; no-one would have even realised the items were missing if I hadn't spotted the hairs left on the door to the JCR."  
  
On the other end of the line, Moriarty groans. "Superb," he says, breathlessly. "Superb! Oh, Sherlock, if only I was there right now. The _things_ I would _do_ to _you_."  
  
Elated, Sherlock grins. "What would you do to me?"  
  
Moriarty breathes in shakily. "Oh, I would _fuck_ you, Sherlock. So hard. I would _fuck_ you until you couldn't even see any more."  
  
Sherlock cradles the phone in both hands. "Not," he says, "if I fucked you first."  
  
Moriarty's response catches in his throat. "How would you fuck me?" he whispers.  
  
Sherlock licks his lips and smiles. " _Mercilessly._ "  
  
Moriarty groans again, louder this time. "Two weeks ago. Jason Smith."  
  
"Dead," says Sherlock, running his fingers over his throat. "Not a normal car accident. The tyre marks were too straight. Nobody breaks like that without swerving unless they've planned it beforehand."  
  
"Two days ago. Bomb scare at the Mansion House."  
  
"Not a real bomb. That much was easy to tell. What wasn't easy was noticing the clock that had been stolen during the evacuation. We caught the thief just as he was attempting to enter Bank station."  
  
"Tomorrow..."  
  
Silence hangs in the air. Sherlock's eyes open wide. "What about tomorrow?" He sits up. "What's going to happen tomorrow?"  
  
Moriarty laughs quietly and makes a contented sort of noise. "What? You can't guess this one, Sherlock? You've managed to get all the others. You've made me rather proud."  
  
"Try me," says Sherlock. "Give me a clue and I'll tell you what you have planned."  
  
"Nope," says Moriarty, smugly, then moans. "That would be far too easy. You told me you didn't want me to make it _easy_."  
  
Sherlock snarls. "Be careful before you gloat, _Moriarty_. I know far more than you realise. For example, I know you're currently somewhere private, because there's no way you'd risk a phone call like this in the open. You could be inside a building, but the acoustics are wrong. That means you're somewhere small and enclosed, most likely a car. You're not moving because I can't hear the engine running, and you must be parked somewhere suburban because I can't hear any other traffic on the road either. There is something I can hear though: aircraft. Sounds like you're somewhere on the flightpath to a major airport, and, given the frequency of the flights passing overhead, I'd say that that airport was Heathrow." Sherlock grins. "Want me to tell you how far you are from the terminal?"  
  
But Moriarty doesn't reply because he's busy moaning his way through an orgasm on the other end of the line. It's a fake orgasm, of course; that's not hard to tell, but it still makes Sherlock's mouth turn dry and his heart beat fast in his throat.  
  
After a minute or so, Sherlock hears Moriarty attempt to catch his breath. " _God_." Moriarty swallows thickly. "Was that as good for you as it was for me?"  
  
Sherlock smirks, breathless. "You tell me."  
  
Moriarty sniggers. "Oh, we'll have to do this again sometime. I've had _so much_ fun." He sighs languidly. "I hate to love you and leave you, Sherlock, but, you know, I've got lots of things to do. You don't _mind_ do you?"  
  
"Not at all."  
  
"Good. Well, I suppose I'd better say goodbye. Have fun tomorrow, won't you?"  
  
Sherlock fingers his collar. "Oh, I will."  
  
And without further ceremony, the line goes dead.  
  
With a sigh, Sherlock chucks the phone to one side and sinks down in the armchair. Tomorrow. Moriarty has something planned, but what? It must be something to do with Heathrow. There's no way Moriarty would make a phone call like that if he hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock a clue.  
  
Sherlock huffs. There's a lot to think about, and the police should be notified as soon as possible but first... Sherlock bites his lip and shoves a hand down his trousers... First, he has something slightly more pressing to take care of.


End file.
